Friday, June 19, 2009

Introspections of a Reluctant Smoker

I dont want to go down that lane.
I dont want to smoke that joint.
There was then; the dancing smoke that rose was mine.
But the butt-end is all that's left,
And I don't want to go down that lane.

The ghost of our smoke has haunted me for long.
For sometime the ghost was restless;
It has long since given up.
The last cigarrete has been smoked.
The lane lies covered in butt-ends and ashes;
But that is all; the smoke does not dance anymore.
Each butt is a memory. Puff on.
But when the last cigarrete has been smoked,
I dont want to go down that lane anymore.

I stand at the mouth, and glance down:
The lane seems alluring,
Smacks of some long forgotten aroma...nostalgia.
I can see the scattered butt-ends though.
What is the use of smoking old butt-ends?
The years together were like cigarretes;
Once it has been smoked...the sweet sweet cancer!
And now, all that's left are butt-ends.
No use smoking them;
Just butt-ends, that were once cigarretes.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

what an analogy between the sweet yrs of togetherness and cancer once it is gone. Have read lots of comparisons on the topic of separation, memory, love etc but this is staggering and hitting.

"Each butt is a memory. "